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He sighed. “Go. Enjoy your evening. I'll handle things here.”

“Have I ever told you you're my favorite person?”

“Yes. Now hang up before I change my mind.”

I disconnected the call and studied my reflection.

I'd chosen a deep emerald-green satin midi dress that skimmed my curves without clinging too tightly. The neckline was a soft cowl that revealed a tasteful amount of cleavage, while the thin straps showed off my shoulders. The fabric gathered slightly at my waist before falling into a sleek skirt with a slit that stopped a few inches above my knee.

Sexy, but appropriate.

Elegant, but not boring.

The kind of dress that said successful woman attending a sophisticated rehearsal dinner rather than desperate woman hoping her fake boyfriend notices her boobs.

I'd paired it with delicate gold earrings, a thin bracelet, and strappy nude heels. My hair fell in glossy waves around my shoulders. I'd gone with smoky bronze eyeshadow and a soft rose-colored lipstick.

The overall effect was polished. Sophisticated. Effortless.

I gave myself one final inspection.

Then picked up my clutch.

“Okay,” I whispered to my reflection. “You can do this.”

Which was ridiculous. I was going to rehearsal and dinner. Not testifying before Congress. Although, considering my family, the two experiences weren't entirely dissimilar.

I stepped out of the bathroom and headed down the hallway toward the living room.

Damon had given me privacy in his bedroom and bathroom while I got ready. He hadn't hovered. Hadn't complained about how long I was taking. Hadn't knocked on the door every five minutes asking if I was almost finished.

He'd simply told me to take my time.

Which, coming from a man who'd spent the past few days systematically dismantling my emotional defenses, felt suspiciously considerate.

“Sorry, I'm late…” The words died in my throat.

Damon stood near the window, his phone in one hand. He looked up. And stopped moving. Completely.

His eyes traveled over me. Slowly. From my heels to the slit in my dress, over my hips and waist, lingering briefly at my neckline before finally reaching my face.

His mouth parted. Then closed. Then opened again.

Oh.

Well.

That was new.

I'd been complimented before.

I'd attended galas where men in tuxedos had told me I looked beautiful while simultaneously trying to get me to invest in their companies.

I'd dated men who'd called me gorgeous because they assumed it was the fastest route to getting me into bed.

But this? This was different. Damon looked like he'd forgotten how language worked. And I was not above enjoying it.

For one ridiculous second, I felt like Renée Zellweger's character in Jerry Maguire, stepping out in that little black dress and receiving the kind of reaction that made the dress feel like an Audrey Hepburn movie.